


By Any Other Name

by Hexiva



Series: Mr. Robot Post-S4 [1]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: (sort of?), Canon Character of Color, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Happy Ending, Names, Nonbinary Elliot, Post Series, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24761722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexiva/pseuds/Hexiva
Summary: After the season 4 finale, the Mastermind seizes his second chance and tries to rebuild his life and relationships.
Relationships: Darlene Alderson & Elliot Alderson, Elliot Alderson & Leon
Series: Mr. Robot Post-S4 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1849753
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	By Any Other Name

The story comes to an end, and the morning afterwards, I wake up, and I’m still here.

I’m still here.

I thought that when I let him free, him, the real Elliot, that he would take control. That I would just fade away into the background, a passive observer like you. But it turns out he needs me, just like I needed Mr. Robot.

I’ve been given a second chance, and I’m not going to waste it. 

The first one I reach out to is Leon, because of course it is. Leon’s always there for me, even after everything. He’s watching “The Good Place” now, and we have a standing date every week to meet and watch the new episode. It’s pretty good, honestly. Not the kind of thing I thought I’d be into, but somehow Leon’s enthusiasm makes me see it through different eyes. He says I’m like Chidi. I’m not sure I see it. The British woman reminds me of Tyrell, and that kinda makes me sad. 

There's a bar down the street from my apartment, where some white guys meet every weekend to watch football. I go with them, hang out, always on the edges of the group. I’m trying. I can never think of anything to say to them. I don't really have anything in common with them, but then again, I think, I don't really have anything in common with Leon either, and he's cool. 

I ask him to explain the rules of football to me. It's really complicated. About halfway through, I pull out my phone and start trying to take notes, and Leon looks at me like I'm crazy.

"Thought you hated sports, cuz," he says. "What's with the sudden interest?"

"Trying to work on my social anxiety," I mutter, typing down a definition.

"By taking a crash course on football?" he asks.

I shrug, uncomfortable. "That's what normal people do, isn't it? Watch sports? Talk about them?"

Leon chuckles. "I ain't ever really know what normal is, cuz. But why you tryna be normal anyway? I like you strange."

I look away. "That's what you're supposed to do, isn't it? Get a job. Make friends. Be normal." My eyes dart around the room. "The way I was before - before fsociety - I don't wanna go back to that."

He's looking at me like he did when he told me to dream, like I'm missing something really obvious. "What makes you think you gotta choose, cuz?"

"Choose?" I echo.

"Between being your own self and having people in your life. You know - you ain’t gotta be normal to have friends. Me myself, I get together with a few guys from the Knight Rider reddit and reflect on the classics. Where’s your people? Gotta be some other hackers you can hang with.”

I make a face. “What kind of hackers? The kind that prop up capitalism by working cybersecurity, or the kind who want to steal people’s nudes or some shit? Nah, man.”

Leon rolls his eyes, like he thinks I’m making excuses. Maybe I am. “Okay, then. You wanna change the world, why not get into some of that activist shit?”

“I am _not_ gonna hang out with a bunch of clueless liberals talking in circles about which super PAC-funded capitalist candidate is the most politically correct,” I say. “I’d rather stick with the football.”

“Liberals, what?” Leon makes a face. Yeah, he definitely thinks I’m making excuses. “You think you the only communist in this great city of ours?” he raises an eyebrow at me. “Google that shit, bro.” I open my mouth to say something, and he preempts me, having heard this objection before. “I know, I know, Google is spying on you, use DuckDuckGo or whatever. You getting caught up in the details again. My point is, you gotta find your people. You ain’t gotta just wait around for people to find you and then act like it’s their fault when the right people don’t show.”

He might have a point. He usually does. I look it up on DuckDuckGo - on principle, because I’m using a VPN anyway - and two weeks later, I’m sitting in on a meeting of the local communist party, listening to a scruffy white dude debating with a pink-mohawked Latina punk about the effects of capitalism on the mainstream media. He thinks media allows us to picture a future beyond the capitalist present. She thinks media allows us to dull our minds and forget about what’s necessary. I think Leon would probably agree with him, but I’m on her side.

Is this what getting better looks like? I hope so.

I call Krista’s office and ask for an appointment. The day after, she calls me back, and my heart sinks. “Elliot, I’m sorry, but I can’t be your therapist anymore. After what happened, with that Vera man - I have to refer you to someone else.”

Starting over again, with someone new. Having to build that trust again, explain my condition, explain about Mr. Robot and Elliot and everything - I close my eyes, exhausted by the very thought. “That’s - good. I’m sure whoever you pick will be good.”

Krista is silent for a long moment. Then she says, tentatively, “I can’t be your therapist. But if - if you need to talk about what happened to us - I - I do too. I think it would be good for us to - talk. Not as patient and therapist, but just as - people. Equals. Would you be open to that?”

There’s a lump in my throat, and for a moment I don’t think I can answer, the memories welling up in me. “Yeah,” I say, coughing to keep the tears back. “Yeah, that’d be - good.”

We meet up for coffee, and we talk. I don’t mention my dad, and neither does she. But she tells me about what happened with Vera, how he threatened her, and I tell her about how I met Vera, how he was obsessed with me, how he thought we were the same.

She tells me I’m nothing like him, and I find I can’t respond, choked with tears.

* * *

When I get home from next week’s communist meetup, Darlene’s sitting on my couch. I blink down at her. She stares at me, as if she can see into my soul. After a moment, she says, “It’s you again, isn’t it? The other one.”

“The other-other one, yeah,” I say, with a little shrug. “I’m - not Elliot, not Mr. Robot either.”

“What should I call you?” she asks. “If you’re not Elliot. Do you have a name?”

I shake my head. “No. He called me - the Mastermind.” I run a hand through my hair. Elliot’s hair. It’s getting long, needs a cut. “Makes me sound like some kind of supervillain.” Is that what I am? The evil alternate personality who stole Elliot’s life? I spent all that time thinking of myself as the Jekyll to Mr. Robot’s Hyde - but if I’m not the real Elliot, does that make me Mr. Hyde in this story?

“Well, I’m gonna need to call you something, Tyler Durden,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I can’t keep calling you not-Elliot.”

“I’ll work on it,” I say. “Did you come here to talk to me, or to him?”

She eyes me. “Can I talk to him?” she says, carefully. “If he wants to? We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“Yeah,” I say, and I shut my eyes, reaching for him.

“Wait.” I jump as Darlene puts her hand on my shoulder, and my eyes fly open.

“You’re still my brother too, all right?” Darlene says. “Don’t forget that.”

I stare up at her, and then smile, slightly. “Thanks.”

I let her and Elliot talk. Like she said, they have a lot to catch up on, and I don’t listen in.

Names. Names. What is your name, friend? Do you have one that you’ve never told me? How do names work, for people like us?

I think about names, and then I look up an old friend.

I’m relieved to see she’s doing fine - working in a factory shovelling waste into an incinerator, and I smile thinking of her getting lost in the orange glow of the flames. There are worse things she could be doing. She probably brings her books to work when she’s done, and throws them in. Or maybe that isn’t personal enough for her. 

_From:_ [ _samsepi0l@protonmail.com_ ](mailto:samsepi0l@protonmail.com)

_To:_ [ _nomoreshitjokes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:nomoreshitjokes@gmail.com)

_Subject: Remember me?_

_Dear Carla,_

Is that too formal? Maybe I should just say Carla. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. Maybe I’m overthinking this.

_Hey, it’s me, Elliot._

Well, no, it’s not, but she’s never _met_ Elliot.

_I don’t know if you remember me from prison. It feels like it’s been years. I heard you got out. Would you like to get coffee sometime?_

Is that too forward? Does it sound like a date? I don’t want to ask her out on a date. Do I?

_Your friend (?),_

_Elliot_

I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. She’s probably not going to respond, after what I did to her. I feel anxious and yet, at the same time, also satisfied. I _tried._ I reached out. The old me wouldn’t have done that. 

That week, I ask Leon if he wants to come watch football at the bar with me. Maybe it’s weird, but I have fond memories of watching the basketball game in prison with him. He agrees, and now we're at the bar, watching the local team get their asses handed to them. Leon keeps up a running commentary, explaining the rules, his opinions on the players, and, at one point, a lengthy digression about the history of football. I still don't give a shit about sports, but sitting there with him, I almost kinda get it. Leon's enthusiasm always warms my heart, makes me feel like maybe there are still things - or people - left worth caring about. I wish I could care about shit as much as he does.

As the game winds down, we find ourselves at the bar sitting next to an Asian guy who's new to the group. He strikes up a conversation, and it turns out he watches The Good Place too. Leon's eyes light up, and I grin to myself as he shifts into full on monologue mode. The new guy doesn't seem to mind. I get the feeling he's like me: likes to listen more than talk. 

When the game ends, and the group starts to disperse, the new guy asks us if we're going to be coming next week too. Leon looks to me for an answer.

"Sure," I say.

That evening, Carla emails me back. We set up a time and a place, and I sit back at my computer, wondering that it could be that easy. That she would still want to talk to me after everything that happened. 

It's not a date, but I make sure to make myself presentable anyway. I even put on a button-down, one of those TrunkClub ones, under my hoodie. She isn’t going to give a shit, but that self-help book I read in prison said you should dress for yourself, not for anyone else. 

I take a seat at a little table in the Barnes & Nobles cafe. Vertical integration, I think. Now you don’t need to leave to buy a drink with your book; now you can be charged right here. It’s a trap. It’s always a trap. 

I order a black coffee anyway, and wait. 

When she shows up, she looks good. She’s wearing bright makeup - garish, even. Normally, I’m not a big fan of obvious makeup, but on her it makes me smile. It means she doesn’t have to care if people stare at her out here. 

I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what to say.

She beats me to it. “You’ve got a lot of nerve looking me up after all that shit you pulled in prison,” she says.

I blink stupidly back at her. “S-sorry,” I say.

“You should be,” she says, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow at me. “Come on. If I’m going to be here anyway, I want to look at the books.”

“Okay.” I get up, and we wander the store. It was a good idea. This way, I don’t feel like I have to make eye contact with her. But I still feel like I need to say something.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, as she’s examining a John Grisham book. “About getting you into more trouble in prison. I was trying to help.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She puts the book back, pulling out a different one. After a moment, she says, “I know you were trying to help.”

“I didn’t think,” I say, by way of explanation.

She sighs. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? You could’ve just asked.”

I wince. “I’m not . . . good at talking to people.”

“Elliot, someday, you’re going to have to learn that playing games with people’s lives isn’t a substitute for talking to them,” she says, without looking at me.

Playing games with people’s lives. That’s what a mastermind does, isn’t it? I feel like an imposter suddenly, standing here wearing Elliot’s skin and letting him be accused of my crimes. 

“I’m not Elliot,” I blurt out.

Fuck. Why did I say that?

She just glances at me. “Who are you, then?”

That’s the question of the year, isn’t it? I cross my arms around myself, protectively. I don’t know the answer. Who am I? Not Elliot. What is my name?

I reach out at random to pick up a book. _Mark Twain,_ I read. Not his real name either. “How did you pick your name?” I ask. “Carla, I mean.”

She glances over at me. “I’ve told you before, haven’t I? There was this hairdresser. She accepted me, the way I really am.”

That’s a nice thought. Who accepts me as I really am? I think about Leon, first. But I can’t exactly steal his name - and besides, it’s not even his real name. And then I think about other people, the ones I lost. Shayla. Angela. Does it have to be a male name?

Carla picks up a book off the shelf, and hands it to me. “You should read this one.”

I look down at the book in my hand. _The Left Hand of Darkness,_ by Ursula K. LeGuin. “You like it?” I ask. I remember the last book she gave me, she hadn’t read. Maybe she likes the cover.

“Yeah,” she says. “I read it a long time ago. It helped me figure some things out. Maybe it’ll help you, too.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Thanks,” I say. She didn’t have to do this, offer me this gesture. She’s just as closed-off as me, so I get it, I know how she is, because she’s like me. The little things mean a lot more.

“Yeah, well,” she says, vaguely. “Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two, too, straight boy.”

I smile, looking down. “Maybe I will.”

* * *

Elliot is in control for a few days after that. He’s still not talking to me. I guess I deserve that. We’re going to have to talk, sooner or later, but for now, I let him have his space. I told Mr. Robot that I’ll let go, and I will. That means more than letting Elliot front; it means accepting that he gets to make his own choices.

That’s what Carla was telling me too, isn’t it? I need to stop playing games with people’s lives. I need to let go.

When I wake up, my hair is clipped short again. Short on the sides, longer on the top, just like always. I guess that’s how he likes it, too.

I look at myself in the mirror, and I wonder how much of my life is mine and how much of it is his.

I take the subway. Someone else seizes control of my body - his body - on the way there, but I wake up when we get to my stop. This is something for me to do, not the others.

I get off the train and walk a few blocks to the graveyard. Shayla’s grave is here. I should’ve brought flowers or something. I never got to ask her if she liked flowers.There was so much I never got to ask her.

 _Taken from us too soon,_ the gravestone says. No shit. 

You don’t need to see me crying here, friend. This is something for me to do, not the rest of us. I know you understand.

* * *

At the next communist meetup, I slip up again. Talking to myself, about how the capitalist machine is gearing back up, appropriating the language of Five/Nine and putting its claws back into us. Only I realize I’ve been doing it out loud. Sometimes it feels like the voices in my head are so loud, I can’t tell when I’m speaking out loud. 

For once, though, they don’t seem to notice I did anything weird. Actually, I think they agree with me. That’s weird, makes me feel unnerved and floating, not necessarily in a bad way. I’m used to kicking myself whenever I slip up and voice the thoughts in my head. But this time, there’s no repercussions. No embarrassment. I contributed to the conversation and they don’t mind.

It’s weird.

After the meeting, the punk with the pink mohawk stops me as I’m gathering up my backpack to leave. “Hey,” she says. “You wanna go get lunch afterwards?”

I try to think of a reason to say no. Nothing comes to mind. “Sure,” I say.

So we get lunch. The punk says her - _their -_ their name is Blair, and that their pronouns are they/them. I don’t really understand what that means at first, but they say it means they aren’t a man _or_ a woman, but something in between. I say I feel like that sometimes too, but I’m not sure they take me seriously. Maybe it’s different. Maybe I still don’t understand it.

“Anyway, I never got your name,” Blair says.

I think about it for a moment. People keep asking me that. What is my name?

“Shay,” I say. “My name’s Shay.”

I think Shayla would’ve liked it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment, I'd love to hear what you thought.


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